


Texts From The Night That Wasn't

by Yina_Ke



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Texts From Last Night, prompt fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yina_Ke/pseuds/Yina_Ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All I know is that I got up to take a piss and he somehow got in and was crying on my couch."</p><p>A collection of fills based on the text from last night meme, with various pairings and ratings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS. THIS IS A FANTASTICALLY FUN MEME OMG. So how how it works is that someone on tumblr gives me a pairing plus a text from last night ([here!](http://textsfromlastnight.com/)), and I write a ficlet based on the prompt. I'm going to update the author's notes in this section to summarize each chapter (with the pairing), so if you come in here, you can skip to a chapter with a pairing you're most interested in.
> 
> So far, there's:
> 
> Chapter 1: platonic Scott & Stiles plus background Sterica with the text, ""I totally straight up jacked your pants. I'm so sorry."
> 
> Chapter 2: slightly nsfw Danny/Stiles with the text, "I almost died today via plastic wrap. I AM THE REASON THEY PUT WARNING LABELS ON THINGS."
> 
> Chapter 3: slightly nsfw Isaac/Scott with, "I have bite marks all over my ass. Is that an acceptable excuse for missing class?"
> 
> Chapter 4: Stiles/Derek-ish, "All I know is that I got up to take a piss and he somehow got in and was crying on my couch."

"You jacked my pants while I was passed out," Scott says, and saying it aloud is the most absurd thing he’s ever heard. He takes a breath, tries to ease the tension in the skull, scrounges up the remnants of his voice and then flings it out in a heated, " _Why the fuck would you ever think that was an appropriate thing to_ —”

"Hey, Scott. Scott, Scott," Stiles says on the other end of the line. Scott can just visualize him licking his lips and switching the phone from one ear to the other, maybe running a hand through his hair. "Scott, Scott, hey, man, I’m really _sorry_ about it, okay, it’s just that after I woke up in your place this morning I remembered I had a date today — like an actual, honest-to-God, not-just-masquerading-as-an-idle-interest-in-ending-my-life-date but an actual _date_ -date, and —”

"You were wearing pants when you came to my place last night," Scott says, voice tight. "I sure like to think I would have noticed if you hadn’t, so why the _fuck_ do you think it’s okay to steal mine?”

"Dude, hey, come on, they were _old_ pants.” He pauses. Electric blitzkrieg spits into the line. “With holes. Near the crotch area.”

"Well, that sounds kind of convenient," Scott says.

"They were also green." A pause. "Scott, I’m wearing a _purple_ hoodie.” 

Scott swallows back the retort. Licks his lips. Takes a moment to visualize it. Shudders idly at what his mental theatre presents him with and says, “Dude, you were wearing green with _purple_?” 

"Not the _point_ ,” Stiles says, an edge pressing into his tone. “It was the only thing that was clean this morning, okay, on account of the proclivity of blood and mud and various other unappetizing fluids to end up on articles of clothing lately —”

"Dude, it’s _Erica_ ,” Scott says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “If she liked you that one time you were wearing that fire-enginge red shirt with yellow, she’ll like you in green and purple.”

"But." 

The line falls silent at that, and Scott doesn’t even need to be in the same room as Stiles to know what he looks like. The expression on his face, mouth and hands and possibly _legs_ working together to fumble for the words while the silence stretches out and Scott’s head fucking hurts, and he swipes his palm over his eyes one more time and then stands up from the bed.

"Whatever, man," Scott says. “‘S just a pair of pants. I guess I’ll live." 

He doesn’t say, _It’s fine because you like her_ , and he doesn’t say, _It’s fine because best friends can do that, I guess_ , but it’ll do. Stiles understands. He always does.

Ten minutes later, after Scott’s spent maybe three minutes trying to soothe him down and giving him tips on how not to blow his chances with Erica within the first three seconds and Stiles has hung up on him, he walks down into the kitchen.

His mother is already there, messing with the coffee machine. She turns around, lets her eyes travel down along his body, and raises an eyebrow. “You want to talk about it?”

"It’s the new fashion in town, I think," Scott says, and sits down, pinching at the green fabric. "Worn and hole-y and… green. And stuff." He pauses, frowns, and then adds, "But hey mom, so when do you think you can be done with the laundry? ‘Cause I’m running a little short, and…"


	2. Plastic Wraps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles/Danny, "(306):I almost died today via plastic wrap. I AM THE REASON THEY PUT WARNING LABELS ON THINGS."

Danny isn’t even remotely surprised when Stiles pulls the condom out of his pocket and proceeds to attempt to tear the wrapping off with his teeth like a porn star, complete with head toss and sensual hooded-eyelid fuck-me-look, but he’s also known him long enough to know how that will end.

"Hold on," Danny says, and props himself up on his elbows. "Remember that candy wrapper that you almost choked on when you tried to open it with your teeth?"

Stiles groans, but he does stop nibbling at the condom to give Danny a _look_. “Okay, man, hold on, that was one time,” he says. “It’s not my fault if they put on the wrapping the wrong way — the _illogical_ way, because, really, it should’ve been clockwise — so that —”

"Right," Danny says. "Illogical. So. Playstation 3 controller. Wrapping. Discuss."

"Didn’t die," Stiles says, and it’s probably only Stiles who can inject this much mulish bitchiness into his voice while he’s got a dick in his hand and a condom in the other. " _Barely_ choked.”

"Okay." Danny hisses when Stiles grips him tighter, but stumbles through the words with a, "Plastic wrapper around my sister’s prom dress —"

"Just let me _do this_ , all right?” Stiles says, and brings the condom back to his mouth. He’s nearly got it by now, the condom torn halfway open, but his teeth are too close to the latex —

"One tip," Danny says. "Teeth and condoms are a nope."

"I’m not going to accidentally _nip_ it, Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles says. He’s had a sex flush since pretty much the beginning of his make-up session, a faint tint that extends down along his neck and has spilled down his chest at some point. Now it darkens in irritation. “Just because I once texted you to tell you that I am the reason they put warning labels on these things —”

"You totally are," Danny supplies helpfully.

"— does not mean you need to walk me through — hey. Hey. Dan —what —”

Danny’s hands find his hips naturally, and settle at the cinch of his waist. He scoots closer, their legs undulating and flexing and sliding along each other, skin on skin, until Danny has Stiles pressed up against him, and he says, "Jesus, Stiles." His fingers dig into Stiles’s waist. He draws in a deep breath; the air smells of sweat and hormones and _Stiles_ and something that’s quite possibly the remnants of the pepperoni pizza they ordered before they decided to fuck, and it’s _good_. “Just because you’ve probably jacked off to more gay porn than I have on all _five_ of my external 1 TB hard drives does not suddenly make you the Buddha of gay sex.”

Stiles tenses against him. Danny can feel the rustle o the condom when he kneads the wrapping between his fingers.

"If I wanted some sex bomb for a night, I’d be at the Jungle right now," Danny says, because he _has_ to say this. Stiles is full of extremes. Stiles is full of odd angles and sharp contrasts. Stiles’s passion oscillates on the spectrum that spans from fear and love to this omnipresent, stifling need to _prove_ something to Danny, and he’s frankly kind of sick of it.

So he presses on with, “But I’m not, am I? At the Jungle. I’m here with you, and I’d quite like to fuck you before the night is over, so if you could just chill out a little bit, me and my dick would be eternally grateful.”

Danny can _feel_ Stiles’s heart thudding against his chest. The rhythm launches, spikes, then settles into a more even _thud-thud-thud_. Muscles relax, his mouth drops open, and then he says, “Okay.”

"Okay," Danny says. "Okay."

"O _kay_ ,” Stiles repeats.

“ _Okay_ ,” Danny says. 

Stiles takes in a deep breath. “Okay, okay, okay —”

Danny shuts him up with a kiss, because he’s found that that’s the most effective way to go about it. He’s tried ignoring him, he’s tried being mean, he’s tried pretending it’s something other than what it is, and that’s okay.

"I can totally do the condom-opening-with-the-mouth thing, though," Stiles says against Danny’s mouth.

Danny rolls his eyes, flips them over, and presses Stiles against the bed. “Shut up.” He presses his lips to his shoulder, catches some skin between his teeth, and bites down. “Practice on candy wrappers, then we’ll talk. For now…”


	3. Bite Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott/Isaac "(704) I have bite marks all over my ass. Is that an acceptable excuse for missing class?"
> 
> for tumblr user heyyjudetheobscure.
> 
> I may have finally lost it, guys.

Life, Scott has discovered, still has a way of slipping in absurdities even when he least expects it. It’s like some sort of cosmic justice in a way; take one long, arduous battle with his PSATs only to be monitored by a long-haired TA with a ‘Legalize it!’ t-shirt. Survive an arduous battle with alphas and wipe the blood off your forehead while the adrenaline pulses and ebbs only to be presented with Isaac on his stomach, his boxers around his knees, and his butt wriggling in the air.

Scott really, really wants to ask, ‘So how exactly did they end up biting you _in the ass_ ,' but he refrains. He's not sure he wants to know the answer.

A good decision, maybe.

"Don’t say the obvious," Isaac says.

Scott responds with all the eloquence expected of an alpha of his standing. “Uhhhh.” Then: “I — okay. It’s, uh — it’s gonna heal. Once I touch it. And make it. Heal. So, just. Uh.”

Scott determines and re-determines what he knows about the tenets of social interaction to decide just _how_ inappropriate it would be if he told Isaac to close his eyes and enjoy Scott fondling his butt. Not satisfied with the results, he finishes with, “Just let me handle it.”

They’re alone in his room right now, but Scott thinks he can just hear Stiles say, ‘ _Handle_ , huh?’ somewhere.

"I don’t know how the fuck it happened," Isaac says. "I was fighting with the smaller one and suddenly I feel this pain in my ass, and I turn around to see there’s a _literal_ pain in my ass in the form of the teeth of that other one —”

"Yeah, yeah, I saw it," Scott says. "Collateral damage in the heat of battle. Um. Now, just, uh, hold still."

He reaches out a hand and places it on Isaac’s hip. The skin feels warm, the bone beneath hard against Scott’s fingers. There’s one bite mark on Isaac’s left cheek and a smaller one on his right, both still open and raw, the red morbidly bright against the pale skin.

There’s something at the back of Scott’s throat, thick and gobbly. He moves his tongue around his mouth, presses it against the roof and then draws it across dry lips. He waits.

Until Isaac wriggles again and Scott remembers where they are and what he has to do, and he raises his other hand and places it on the bite mark. It burns against his palm, pulsing and ugly. Scott turns his entire mental focus on his hand and proceeds to draw the pain into it.

It pulses up the veins in his arms like the pallivative beat of a drum. Not painful, but _foreign_ , the pain drawing up and then stilling somewhere inside him, where it’s subsumed and flattened and scatters. Scott can do this. It’s not so different from healing a bite or a scratch on any other body part.

Then Isaac begins to _moan_ and Scott gets _hard_ and everything fucking goes to shit.

That’s it, he thinks. _Alpha with the Healing Powers_ may sound like a great band name, but he’s not so sure it’s the power he wanted after all. What happened to good old _flying_? If it was good enough for Superman —

"Better?" Scott says, with a deep, slow exhale. "It’s closing —"

"Good," Isaac says, and fucking wriggles. “Feels good. Warm.”

Yeah, yeah, warm. Right. The hand that’s still on Isaac’s hip slides lower, circles down to the tip of Isaac’s thigh, and then moves up, over the swell of the curve to the second bite mark. Scott moves his fingers, extracts the mark of the other alpha, draws it all in. He’s sort of purifying Isaac of the other alpha, he thinks. It’s like he’s claiming Isaac as his own, once again.

He’s never thought of healing this way before, and now that he is, it seems fitting. Right, that’s why Isaac’s on his bed right now, naked from the hips down. That’s why he’s wriggling and moaning, and Scott can’t keep his eyes away from his —

"Butt," Scott says.

Isaac turns around his head to shoot him a look. “Huh?”

Scott blinks. “What?”

"Butt?" says Isaac.

"But what?" 

"No, that’s what you said. _Butt_.”

Oh. _Oh_. Scott tries not to succumb to the fluttering wings of panic in his chest, swallows and swallows against it until the world cuts back into clear focus, and says, "I was gonna say, _but_ it’s a bit hot in here, d’you think I could open the window?”

Scott snaps his mouth shut and feels the seconds press past, and Isaac’s eyes unfocus a bit, and Scott thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is all good and well now, when —

"Oh," Isaac says. "Oh. You — oh. _Really_?”

"God," Scott says, because he supposes there’s no point in denying it now. "This is possibly the worst way in which it could possibly have come out. Sorry."

The angle is bad, what with Isaac on his stomach, but they make eye contact over the turns and angles and curves of Isaac’s body. The blue glitters.

Then drops down to the front of Scott’s crotch.

"Job hazards?" Scott tries.

"Doesn’t seem too harzardous to me," Isaac says, and there it is: a small smirk breaks into his lips, pulls them up at the corners, creases his eyes. Then the smirk slides back into his features, leaves behind a small smile that seems almost happy, almost relieved, and it’s been such a long time that Scott’s seen such a smile on his face that he forgets about butts for a second here.

Then Isaac wriggles again and Scott places an ‘or maybe _part_ of a second’ addendum.

"How does it look?" Isaac says, and Scott’s brain sort of crashes.

Until he re-boots it and manages a, “Well, almost healed. One bite’s just a bump of mottled gray now. The other’s healed completely. I could —”

"Continue," Isaac says, and settles back onto his stomach. "Even after it’s healed completely."

So maybe life is full of absurdities, but sometimes they’re _good_ absurdities. “This is revelationary,” Scott says.

"So, by the way," Isaac says, and Scott is going to have that register that smirk as a controlled weapon somewhere. "Can you heal your own bites, too…?"


	4. panacea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and anyone (623) "All I know is that I got up to take a piss and he somehow got in and was crying on my couch."
> 
> for burningletter-

Derek’s _this_ close to sending the text message for real.

He’s got it typed out, and all. First all in caps and followed by fifteen exclamation marks, then toned down to all lower case when he decided caps were too aggressive. Then back to regular spelling when he concluded all lower case was too _timid_.

_Come and get him. He’s your problem._

The letters blink and fade in and out like a witless grin.

It’s not like Derek hasn’t tried other options. In fact, when he first came back from taking a piss and found Stiles ( _Stiles_ , of all people) crying on his couch while stinking like a vodka factory, Derek first did the thing that seemed natural to anybody with his sort of finesse at navigating emotionally draining social interactions.

Which is to say, he turned around and went back into the bathroom.

Sufficient amounts of mirror-staring, teeth grinding, and exactly two-hundred and thirty-four bottles on the wall later, Derek walked back out.

"Why are you crying on my couch?" he asked, and very diplomatically left out the _and will you kindly get the fuck off of it._

Stiles lay there crumpled up, his hoodie clenched between drawn-in shoulders. A vein beneath the faint skin of his exposed neck pulsed at Derek. His eyes looked at Derek quiet and glassy.

"Oh, what the fuck," Derek said, and reached for his phone. 

Clothes rustled behind him. “What, what are you — what are you,” Stiles said, voice thick and sloppy, “what are you — do —”

"Calling the person responsible for this," Derek said.

A pause. “The _police_?”

"No," Derek said, and shot him a look. "That friend of yours that you’re inseparable from? The one that sort of links you and me and is the whole reason why we even know each other?”

Stiles blinked like a dying owl. His eyes were wet and larger than ever, the pupils small. The fine hairs that trailed along his bottom lid shook. “You can’t call Scott,” he said, and he managed not to trip over the slurred words, “You can’t, I mean, don’t — don’t call him, he’d _worry_ —”

"It’s not _my problem_ if he’s worried, now, is it?” Derek said. “And by the way, neither is your break-down on my property —”

"You won’t," Stiles said, and an edge pressed into his voice. "You _can’t_.”

At this time, Derek already had the text written. Which brings him to now, now and the faint stirring in his chest that may be sympathy, or it may just be a particularly obnoxious case of acid redux.

Then Stiles _sobs_ , and it sounds like it’s tearing through skin and tissue and bone, like it comes from the deepest pit in the chest, deeper than normal sobs, close to where the heart is, and Derek thinks that yes, okay, maybe it’s the sympathy.

He snaps the phone shut, runs an irritated hand through his hair, then tosses it to the side. “Fuck.”

More clothes rustle. “You’re not going to call —”

"No," Derek says. "But I may reconsider if you don’t keep in mind that I’m only letting you cry on my couch so long as you don’t ruin it, and phlegm stains _most definitely_ count.”

Everything stills. Stiles doesn’t even fidget. His heart beat is an even drum in Derek’s ear, low and resounding. He can hear Stiles’s breathing. Before, it was hammering against his larynx; now it’s soothed down, calmed.

"Thanks," Stiles says. 

Derek shrugs. Gets up to get himself some beer, even if he can't get drunk anyway. It seems fitting. He opens it up and sits down on the floor in front of the couch, beer bottle dangling between propped-up legs. 

"Whatever," Derek finally says. It falls flat, the ‘thanks’ it meant to address long since gone from the air. Derek shrugs again, and takes a sip from his beer. He doesn’t believe he’s doing this. He doesn’t even care. "So, why were you crying?"

Stiles laughs. It still sounds choked-up and thick. “I don’t know, was a fly in my eye? D’you think there was, Derek? Do you think it’s that? Or maybe you don’t think at all because you don’t care. Yeah. There’s that, too.”

"You’re drunk, and you’re annoying," Derek says, but he says it without any bite. He brings the beer bottle to his lips again and takes a sip. "Please correct one of the two or both."

"Dude, if I could just sober up _whenever_ — whenever I wanted, that would be great. In fact, you could probably make a lot of money if you had something like that. Like an instant-sobererer.”

Derek sighs. “This is not my day. Drink some water. There’s some on the table in front of you.”

"I’m not thirsty," Stiles says. "I’m sad."

Derek blinks at the dive of that particular non-sequitur. Water helps with hang-overs, but he supposes Stiles is welcome to some migraine. “That astounds me. Considering you just spent what feels like three hours crying on my couch.”

"Okay, first, wiseass, it’s been like fifteen minutes, _tops_." Stiles squints. "Maybe _thirssy_. Thirty. But more importantly, don’t you get it?”

Stiles says it with so much furor that Derek idly think he should become a stage actor. He takes another sip from his beer.

Stiles goes on. “It’s hard to admit that you’re sad, you know. It’s easier to say you’re angry, hey, it’s even easier to say that you’re scared out of your mind, that so much shit has been happening that you just don’t even know where your head is. You know? Your head. It’s much easier to say than that you’re sad. If you’re angry, well, calm down. If you’re scared, well, go away from whatever makes you scared. But _sad_?” 

Derek looks at him.

"Sad is trickier. It’s slower. It’s what whittles you down fastest. There’s no immediate remedy, because it’s bone-fucking- _deep_.”

Derek clenches his jaw shut. He places the bottle on the floor.

For one crystalline-sharp second, he considers calling McCall after all to have him take care of his drunken friend, because this is really not Derek’s responsibility, and Stiles and he aren’t even friends, and this is probably the most absurd thing that’s ever happened to him.

Then he thinks back to something Jennifer told him once, back when they’d been happy and he hadn’t yet _known_. When they’d be together, right here, and she’d make evasive answers about her own past while gently probing into his. He has no idea how much of what she said she ever actually _meant_ , but he liked what she said, that one time.

"You haven’t broken," he says. "Not that."

Stiles lets out a laugh. “Can’t,” he says. “No time. No time for that shit. Can’t.”

Derek looks at Stiles, and Stiles looks at him.

Stiles’s eyes are still uncomfortably red, one eyelid a little droopy. His hoodie is a mess; specks of dirt and grass cling to the fabric. Derek has no idea what happened to trigger this exactly, and he has no real interest in talking it out.

He doesn’t think that talking about it is the panacea that it’s always made out to be. Sometimes it only makes the matter rub harder against your focus, only sands it down to reveal more spikes. 

Sometimes, it’s enough to just sit there and wait it out.

Derek gets up, walks toward the couch, and unceremoniously sits down on it. Right on Stiles’s foot.

"Ah," Stiles hisses. " _Oww_ , what the fuck?”

"Scoot," Derek says, and slaps on Stiles’s thigh to make a point. " _Now_.”

Stiles curses some more under his breath, then moves to the other end of the couch. Derek takes hold of the remote control and sends Stiles an idle look.

He’s staring at him, looking utterly confused, his eyebrows drawn in suspiciously, his lower lip pushed forward slightly. Derek’s lamps catch on sheen on his lips. They part slowly with each and every breath.

Derek says, “I’m gonna watch some Seinfeld. You can leave or you can stay. If you stay, heed the continued declaration of my couch as a snot-free zone. Either way, the steps are: we do this, we see it through, we don’t talk about it tomorrow, then you never come back. Steps one, two, three, and four. You were never here, all right?”

"Okay," Stiles says.

"Okay." Derek takes a deep breath. "Now. We watch."

-

Stiles knows the theme song by heart, because _of course_ he does.

-

They only ever manage to get to step three.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm totally enjoying this thing, so feel free to leave a prompt of your own on my tumblr [here](http://beacockhills.tumblr.com/post/63307471235/fic-meme-texts-from-last-night)! I really think it's a fantastically fun meme, and I'd be happy to try basically any pairing (or gen), even ones I don't normally write.
> 
> (I currently have some prompt backlag but I'll get to it eventually).


End file.
